The Womb

Two streets meet at a corner where
a grate in the side walk sends needed warmth. The air
drifting aimlessly upward as if to heaven while
passers by curse the slots that claim fallen coins.

He is without a home.
Knees gathered to chest and arms folded around his legs
the warm air his comfort and the grate his bed; huddled
from what passes by in fetal saftey.

The bottle of Chateau Gai lies empty on the street beside
his forgotten dreams and he is transformed in his stupor
able to escape all that he fears.

Legs gathered, held tightly to his chest, like the comfort
of a womb.

-TJS, 2000